


Sins and Saviors

by Ethereal_Soup



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boba Fett Has A Savior Complex, Bottom Cassian Andor, Cassian Andor Has Trust Issues, Choking, Dom/sub, Everyone Is Gay, Fingerfucking, Gay Sex, Genital Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation Interruptus, Men Crying, Multi, No Gore, Painful Sex, Praise Kink, Prison, Prison Sex, Protective Boba Fett, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shock Torture, Sweat, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Top Boba Fett, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29916582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereal_Soup/pseuds/Ethereal_Soup
Summary: ROGUE ONE AU: Cassian Andor's intelligence mission to the Ring of Kafrene results in Imperial detainment. The rebel awakes to weeks of agonizing physical torture and relentless interrogation; each method proving more severe and perverse than the last.It isn't long before Cassian is issued an inmate; a mysterious bounty hunter with complicated motivations.
Relationships: Cassian Andor/Boba Fett, Cassian Andor/Stormtrooper(s)
Kudos: 6





	Sins and Saviors

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS BY SECTION:
> 
> SECTION 1/3: "Missing the Ledge"  
> • CW: Physical torture w/ slight non-con and erotic elements
> 
> SECTION 2/3: "Inmates"  
> • CW: Aftermath of torture, descriptions of physical pain
> 
> SECTION 3/3: "Put Me Back Together Again"  
> • CW: This entire chapter is just...rough gay smut. All NSFW tags apply :)

**[SECTION 1/3] // “MISSING THE LEDGE”**

Shouting imperials, a wrong turn down the alleyway, and a sudden numbness that overtook his entire body; the details preceding Cassian Andor’s capture are a blur in hindsight. The mission to Kafrene was cut out to be a simple job--make contact with Saw Gerrera’s informant, collect the tip, and if need be, singe off loose ends. 

_For the cause. For the Rebellion._

That mission seemed so long ago now; a distant echo buried under weeks of imperial detainment and torture. 

Cassian first awoke to the status quo; a cold, metallic cell located somewhere he could not discern. A facility on Kafrene only blocks away or the brig of a spacebound imperial star destroyer--Andor knew full and well that he could be anywhere in the galaxy by now.

An officer then verbally interrogated him for anything relevant. He prodded the rebel for his name, rank, and his mission. The conversation was entirely one-sided, resulting in a few crude blows to Cassian’s face and chest as punishment. Threats were levied in excess, all of which the rebel officer knew were empty. 

The only thing they could take from him was his life, and for the cause he served, Cassian would lay it down without a second thought. 

Next? The Empire freed two of their hounds to have their way with him.

Once daily, a pair of security troopers donned in white and red plastoid would enter his cell, forcefully strip Cassian from his jumpsuit, and take to him with a method of battery always unique from the last. 

He never saw the faces beneath their white and red helmets, but somehow he knew that they were always the same pair.

The troopers performed their work with a depraved methodology, quickly sorting out which methods inflicted the most pain; saving those for later recycling. 

Blunt kicks to the ribs, face, and genitalia were a daily commonality. Andor lived in a state of dull, aching pains across the whole of his body. His nose always had some amount of dried blood beneath it, and his slender chest was colored red and purple by new and forming bruises.

The more he refused to speak, the more creative his assailants became.

During more _involved_ sessions one of the troopers would wrap their gloved hands about Cassian’s throat, strangling him to the point of near unconsciousness before releasing him. He’d rasp for a few breaths, enough to fill his lungs again, and the trooper would repeat the process until the rebel’s neck was critically inflamed. 

They laughed at his suffering from behind their helmets, voices low and grainy. It pleased them to own a rebel toy like him; one that refused to break under their weight.

They were never interrupted, nor had anyone ever entered to stop them. The beatings were either short and agonizing or drawn-out and arduous. He realized that they were torturing him based solely on their whims. 

Weeks passed. Cassian hadn’t spoken so much as an insult since he was first interrogated. 

Swiftly, their methods grew more severe… _and suddenly more perverse._

Throughout the countless beatings, the stripped rebel was always capable of stifling his own outcries--that is, until the shock batons came into play. 

This time, Cassian was injected with a serum that greatly lowered his pain threshold. He could feel _everything_ , and any moderate discomfort was hyperbolized to the sensation of a deep stab wound. 

After once again refusing them information on rebel whereabouts, they proceeded to strip and beat him as they usually did. 

Uncharacteristically, they paid _special_ attention to his exposed manhood. After a swift knee to the gut Cassian collapsed to the metal floor. One of the security troopers held the rebel in a seated-headlock; Andor’s back pressed against the trooper’s plastoid chest armor and his bare ass pinned against the groin guard. 

The other trooper got to work forcing Andor’s flailing legs to stay open. In a systemic tandem, the more Cassian resisted being spread apart, the tighter his headlock became. He felt his vision begin to blur as his brain begged for additional oxygen.

 _“Open up,”_ the trooper at Cassian’s back demanded severely.

Eventually, he submitted himself and allowed the other guard to have his way with him. The stormtrooper’s gloved hand found its way to Cassian’s hair-specked groin, and with a relentless grip he yanked the rebel’s ballsack downward. The scream that left Andor’s throat was almost involuntary; the pain was excruciating.

 _Next, the baton._

With his unoccupied hand, the trooper pulling on Cassian’s sack retrieved a static security rod from his belt, igniting it with a wrist-flick and jamming the sparking electricity into Cassian’s already-bruised sides. 

Andor’s back arched _high_ as the seizing energy lurched through his slender body, contracting all of his muscles in one brutal pulse. His insides burned. Every nerve in his body was akin to a hot poker pressing against his bare skin. He had never heard a human make so much noise as he did; crying out in a torment unmatched by anything he had experienced prior.

That session lasted for what felt like four hours. They brought back numerous insidious methods and fashioned brand new ones on the fly, abusing him in every perverse fashion just short of raping him. 

Despite the horror of it all, Cassian uttered not _one word_ against the Rebellion. 

Ironically, his torturers didn’t mind this. Andor’s continued disobedience meant they’d get to do it all over again the next day; perhaps getting away with more. 

When the stormtroopers finally left, when Cassian was allowed to let his guard down, he became nothing more than a trembling mess; his naked skin caressed only by the freezing cell floor. 

**[SECTION 2/3] // “INMATES”**

Cassian’s rich brown eyes peel open one at a time; his left still swollen from the stormtrooper’s blow. His vision lazily focuses and he looks out onto the floor from eye-level. 

He’s facing the small staircase that ascends out of his standard imperial cell, the rebel’s naked body still at the room’s center. 

Had he really fallen asleep here? How long had it been?

He’s resting on his bare stomach - limbs sprawled outward. The ventilation hatch above blows frigid air onto his exposed backside and buttocks.

The chill is oppressive, but is soon balanced by the searing warmth of his wounds. Cassians’s sides burn from where the stormtrooper stabbed him with a shock baton. There’s also a prominent, throbbing ache in his balls from having them gripped and tugged so abusively. 

The quivering rebel lets out a low groan of discomfort as he feels every muscle inside of him beg for stillness--the chance to rest and to recover from the hours of battery. 

He yearns for the medical capabilities of K-2 and the company of his friends, but attempts not to dwell on that ideal fantasy. 

Underestimating his injuries, Cassian attempts to bring himself to his hands and knees. The second he puts weight onto his arm it ignites a fiery pain through his upper body. 

He rolls back into a fetal position facing the door and grasps at his hair-laden chest with one hand. The rebel’s other hand descends to cup his aching groin. 

A hiss of agony escapes from the human’s gritted teeth as he struggles to get on his knees again. 

“You shouldn’t do that,” an unfamiliar voice warns from behind.

The rebel’s first instinct is to suspect that his abusers have returned for a second bout. He rolls onto his other side and attempts to push himself away; a yelp of pain coming from him as he does so. A hand dips between his thighs to cover himself. 

The man sitting on Cassian’s bed is no imperial by the looks of him--the detainment jumpsuit with its prisoner identification number on the pectoral serves as a firm indication of their shared status. 

From Andor’s initial observations he reasons that they’re roughly the same age, the other man looking far worse-for-ware. Scabs and scars are speckled across his olive complexion, a curly layer of black follicles atop his head. 

Cassian sized him up to be a man of the galaxy; someone who had, perhaps, seen as much as he had... _if not more._

Additionally, the rebel attempts to stifle his realization of just how _handsome_ he found the stranger to be--his impressive physique making that _especially_ difficult. He was on the shorter side, but the nameless man’s musculature presented itself clearly by the bulges in his grey jumpsuit.

He sits with his legs off of the metal slab, hands knitted into a ball in his lap. The figure cants his head toward the cell’s corner where Cassian’s grey jumpsuit now sits folded.

“I wanted to wait until you were awake,” he says in a rich, earthy accent. 

Andor’s hesitation and confusion are apparent, and they present themselves in his keen eyes, 

“For what?” he replies in his own accent; native to his homeworld of Fest. 

“To ask if you could put it on by yourself.” The man leans forward out of the thin veil of shade, his elbows now resting on the large thighs that fill out his pants, “Figured we didn’t know each other well enough to do it while you were sleeping.”

The cell’s frigid chill reminds Cassian that it’s present with a fresh gust of air from the ventilators above.

Defiantly, Andor attempts to crawl across the metal floor to his jumpsuit. With each inch his body _screams_ with muscular inflammation and tears. A spike of pain stabs into the rebel’s left calf and he stops progressing, letting out a gritted hiss.

“I didn’t think so,” the nearby man says, rising to step over Cassian’s body and pick up his jumpsuit, “Here. Let me help.”

 _“No,”_ the rebel denies without pause, “I don’t... _need_ … _”_ His words trail off as the baton wound on his left flares up again. Cassian’s outcries border on screams as the residual heat grows to a sweltering boil.

The other man moves into action without being asked, setting the jumper aside and putting additional pressure on Andor’s shock wound with his calloused palms. 

Cassian attempts to push him away, but to no avail. His new inmate was _far_ stronger, despite his somewhat shorter stature. 

“Stop,” the stranger demands with a dominant tamber, forcing Cassian’s arms to rest at his side, “The serum is still in your bloodstream. You’ll go into shock if you don’t let it—“ 

_“Let go of me,”_ Cassian tries to interject, still attempting to wriggle out of the other man’s grip.

“—run its course,” he concludes. 

Andor writhes and struggles a bit more until he feels the pain in his ribcage begin to subside. Under the stranger’s soothing pressure the rebel’s muscles began to relax. Upon realizing this, Cassian reluctantly allows himself to be massaged there; his heaving breaths slowing to a more shallow pace. 

The wounded man makes eye-contact with the opposite, who offers Cassian a single nod, “I’ve been in your position. Trust me,” he says.

Cassian didn’t want to.

The warmth of the stranger’s hands versus his searing wounds presents itself as a surprising comfort. The rebel’s muscles arduously release from their shock-induced seizure. 

For moments on end the only noise in their cell is the shallow ebb and flow of Andor’s catching breath and the rubbing of hands against his bare waist. In a focused silence the other man squeezes and palms the irritated area until nothing but a dull sting remains; far more bearable than before. 

“I’m called Boba,” the stranger reveals, their eyes locking as he awaits the rebel’s reply.

Cassian’s tanned skin flushes as he gets a good look at his enigmatic inmate. He hears the words of his old mentors ricocheting through his mind. 

_Imperial interrogators could siphon information without violence._

This could very well be a guise to lull Andor into divulging personal details about himself, or about the rebel insurgence. All of this manifests as a single, slow shake of the rebel’s head. 

Boba nods without responding, as if seeing Andor’s cautious thought-process transparently. He watches as the rebel’s naked body releases the rest of its muscular tension, Cassian’s back now resting flat after minutes of a painful involuntary arch. 

The man removes his hands from Andor and returns to his feet, “Now your jumpsuit,” he suggests, retrieving it from the corner and unfolding it. 

_“I don’t need your help,”_ Cassian insists with a bite, his jaded demeanor returning to patch the gaps in his slowly-faltering wall. 

“You need to stay still,” Boba replies, “I need you in working-order if we’re going to get out of here alive.” 

That warrants an amused scoff from the rebel, “I’ve heard that one before.”

Boba kneels beside Cassian’s leg and attempts to lift it into one of the pantholes. The rebel makes things difficult with an obstinate shake. The man sighs. With a collected patience he grabs Andor’s ankle and tries again.

“You think I’m an imperial. You’re smart to be suspicious of me.” 

He manages to get one leg in and moves onto the next one.

Cassian squints the one eye that isn’t already swollen narrowly, “Who _are_ you, then?”

Boba exhales through his nose in a sort of laugh, “Someone who’s gone through a great deal of trouble to be here. I thought you might be relieved...knowing someone outside cared enough to send me.” 

The blissful fantasy of a rescue mission suddenly becomes more vivid. It takes a great deal of restraint for Cassian not to feed into it. 

“Who sent you?” The rebel inquires. 

“Your droid. K-2SO,” he says, getting Cassian’s other leg into the hole and starting to pull the jumper up to his narrow thighs. He modestly pulls the fabric over Andor’s manhood to cover him up again. 

Conflict and confusion ignite in the rebel’s mind. A _very_ slim margin of people, let alone rebels knew about K-2. Cassian had made it a point to keep him on the ship to avoid infighting over an imperial droid loose on Yavin 4. 

Had they caught K-2 as well? The artificial intelligence had strictly programmed orders to perform a total memory wipe if captured by the Empire. The chances of that protocol failing were slim to impossible--Cassian wrote that code himself.

As he processes this it becomes more difficult to deny the reality that Boba is presenting.

“But I wasn’t given your name. You don’t have to disclose it to me if you don’t want to,” Boba assures, “I understand the sanctity of identity for you...rebels.”

“You’re _not_?” Cassian poses with a slight tonal upturn. 

“Not what?”

“A rebel.”

Boba manages a chuckle at that; weathered and somewhat coarse, “Not my lifestyle of choice, and not a great means of collecting credits.”

“You’re a mercenary then,” Andor concludes with a lifted brow. 

“When I need to be,” the man replies vaguely. Boba’s warm hands go about fitting Cassian’s bruised arms into the holes of his jumpsuit; zipping the bloodspecked article up to the rebel’s collarbone.

Boba pats him lightly on the chest and returns to the metal slab. The two sit there in silence for a few long minutes. 

“Thank you,” Cassian finally manages, albeit dubiously, “I…didn’t think anyone was coming for me.”

“Don’t thank me,” Boba objects, his eyes falling on him with some degree of intensity, “Thank the credits that brought me here.” 

Cassian lays on the floor and manages to garner some comfort in his situation now that the terms were altered--a comfort more psychological than physical. The rebel’s brown eyes trace the metal plates in the cell’s ceiling. 

Boba lays down on the nearby slab with one hand resting on his stomach, “By this time tomorrow you’ll be back in good company.”

Cassian closes his eyes and imagines it; the balmy humidity of Yavin 4, K-2’s clever quips, and the thrill of a new mission on the horizon. His unseeming optimism pulls him into a blissful sleep. 

**[SECTION 3/3] // “PUT ME BACK TOGETHER AGAIN”**

When Cassian opens his eyes again he realizes how faulty his sense of time was becoming. The cell was darkly lit from above, as it always was, so he couldn’t discern how much of the day had come and gone in his sleep.

The only time-stamps he had were the daily beatings. Based on the hour he was captured and the sequence of his first interrogation, Cassian assumed that they happened during the peak, or early-descending hours of the standard galactic cycle. 

He lays on the cold floor and ponders over how that might affect things. Boba had neglected to tell him his escape plan--perhaps on purpose to prevent Andor from interfering. 

Cassian attempts to move his limbs again and finds it _much_ easier than hours before; though he remains mostly still as a precaution. 

The excruciating pain in his sides, arms, and chest had dulled to minor aches, informing him that the serum had finally run its course and left his bloodstream. He was now experiencing pain “realistically.” 

The rebel considers working his way up before hearing something almost inaudible resonate through the cell--a low moan from beside him. He shifts his gaze toward the metal slab, squinting through the darkness and seeing something he shouldn’t. 

_Boba is fully nude,_ his jumpsuit sitting on the floor beside Cassian. 

The mercenary is seated on the slab with his back pressed against the wall. 

A rugged, veiny hand is wrapped around the inmate’s hardening cock. His eyes are pinched shut and his head is tilted back; not yet noticing that Cassian has awoken.

 _The rebel freezes._

Andor reasons to pretend that he’s still asleep so he doesn’t interrupt his rescuer, but the sight of Boba’s exposed body is too much to resist. There was so much to see, so much to admire. 

Cassian had slept with a handful of muscular rebels during his limbo time on Yavin 4, but none compared to the man before him. _He’s built like a tank,_ Cassian remarks in his head. The rebel could tell Boba was toned by the shape of him, but what he saw through the mercenary’s grey jumper hardly did his candid body justice.

Two bulging pectorals cast a shadow over a thick abdominal area; vaguely-defined, and with just enough fat to fill the six-pack’s indents and make him look bulky; imposing. Curly patches of black chest hair have grown over the man’s deep-olive skin. 

There are pale discolorations in certain areas; blaster scars that create little craters in Boba’s otherwise perfect torso. Beads of hot sweat drip down and through the divets of his musculature—Cassian can smell his nauseating musk from across the cell, and that alone begins to make him hard from under his own jumper. 

_‘Fuck’_ Boba mouths silently, tugging on himself with slow, intoxicating motions. 

Andor’s eyes dip to watch. 

His inmate was _well-endowed_ to say the least. Boba’s slick, throbbing cock oozes precum as his wrapped fingers caress his thick shaft. A prominent vein runs from the near-tip of his manhood all the way to the base. He had to be eight, maybe eight and a half inches long. 

Two _heavy_ balls hang below, both covered in a grove of black follicles. They sag low enough to rest on the metal slab. 

One trunk-sized leg is hiked up, the other fully extended. 

Cassian finds himself entranced by Boba’s pleasuring motions until they abruptly stop. The rebel’s gaze shifts upward to meet his inmate’s.

 _He was just caught staring._

The bashful response Andor expects from Boba does not come to pass. Rather, the other inmate lets out a casual, low sigh and rests the back of his head on the metal wall behind him. 

“Sorry. Didn’t think I was being that loud,” the bounty hunter says, a bead of sweat still dripping down his left cheek. Boba’s heavy breathing continues to lift and lower his glistening chest.

Cassian swallows hard as he grapples for a response, “You can…” he stutters, then restarts, “I’ll turn away.”

The rebel starts to shift his body toward the door before Boba interjects:

“Why don’t you keep watching?” 

That response was entirely unexpected. A warmth _rushes_ to fill Cassian’s member and he quickly becomes rock-hard; the imprint unmistakably shows itself through his jumper. 

Boba notices it immediately. _Andor wasn’t the only one staring where he shouldn’t._

The rebel’s jaded response to most things was failing him in this unprecedented, erotic moment. His words could spell disinterest until the day was through, but his body exposed how Cassian truly felt. 

How _did_ he truly feel? 

“You’re going to get us caught,” Andor warns, “You don’t know the lengths these men have gone to... _punish_ me.” 

A roguish smirk forms on Boba’s lips, “That makes it all the more thrilling, doesn’t it, princess?” 

The nickname comes out of nowhere, but it hits the rebel right where he likes it. 

Boba releases a grainy chuckle, “Plus, you looked interested just then.”

Cassian’s brown eyes dip to the floor with embarrassment. How long was Boba watching Andor watch him? He couldn’t be sure. 

That thought is interrupted by another guttural moan from Boba; now stroking his member again with renewed focus. 

“Watch or don’t…but I need to get off before tomorrow,” he says between soft murmurs.

The curly-haired mercenary parts his lips and lets a large drop of saliva fall onto his member’s tip. The fresh lubrication amplifies the sound of his slick stroking.

Cassian is _still_ staring. He should look away, but the part of him that hadn’t seen action like this in months wanted to keep looking. Andor _dreamed_ of rugged men like this. Boba served as a unique opportunity to live out that fantasy. No one would know. 

“Fuck,” Boba moans quietly, tilting his head back as his breaths quicken to shallow pants. 

The bulge in Cassian’s jumpsuit throbs in pain, begging for release. The rebel hesitates on his last limb of decency, then obliges himself. He slowly lifts his hand to unzip the grey suit with the hope that Boba won’t pay any mind to him. 

The zipper passes over his warm crotch and Cassian tugs his cock from the jumper. The tip is already covered in a thin layer of precum. 

He’s average in size, but Boba’s impressive manhood made him look pathetically small. Nevertheless, Andor wraps his bruised fingers around his shaft and begins stroking himself to the sight of his fellow inmate. 

Boba chuckles again. He couldn’t see what the rebel was doing in this moment, _but he knew._

“You know—” the mercenary starts, interrupted by an erotic hum, “I was thinking about a little slave twink I fucked on Cantonica before you woke up.” His mouth hangs agape as he exhales a silent moan. Boba’s intense eyes open and he dips his animalistic gaze to watch Cassian, “But now…” he trails off suggestively.

The last flicker of shame Andor felt leaves him and he entertains the thought of what Boba is implying, “...now what?” 

“Hmm,” the muscular inmate soothes as his cock beads with more precum, “I’m thinking you owe me a little something…as a tip.” He exhales a shallow, sultry laugh, “Does that sound agreeable?” 

Cassian freezes, considers, and then nods slowly.

Boba’s smirk deepens and he pulls himself to the edge of the metal bed; his legs and his manhood dangling over. He beckons the rebel over with his pointer finger.

Andor crawls on his hands and knees until he’s between the mercenary’s large thighs; the two making direct eye contact from their different heights. 

A rough hand rests atop Cassian’s head and Boba tugs him closer to his cock. 

“Open,” he demands coarsely. 

Andor obeys and parts his lips, sticking out his soft tongue like a landing pad.

 _“Fuck,_ ” Boba coos with a closed smile, “You look so pretty down there.” The mercenary reaches down and slaps the tip of his cock on Cassian’s tongue a few times; sliding it back and forth before letting the rebel perform. 

Andor wraps his hand around Boba’s cock and slides it through his mouth with ease. The warm wetness garners an immediate moan from the mercenary; who tightens his grip on Cassian’s hair until it hurts. 

“Just like that, baby. Please your savior,” he moans. 

The rebel murmurs submissively with the thick member lodged in his mouth. Each bob of his head pushes Boba’s cock further and further in. Cassian hesitates when the other inmate’s tip reaches the crossroad of his windpipe.

Impatient, Boba yanks Cassian’s head deep into his sweaty crotch. His manhood lances down Andor’s throat until the mercenary’s hair-covered sack is resting against the rebel’s hair-specked chin. 

Andor audibly chokes and gurgles up fresh saliva as his windpipe is blocked with the other inmate’s rod--but he doesn’t mind the challenge. 

_The men on Yavin 4 were always so tender with him. They assumed that a man like Cassian craved a gentle hand to contrast his bloody work as a rebel, but this rough change of pace fit into his violent life without question._

_Boba’s merciless grip made him feel at home._

Cassian then leans further into Boba’s groin, taking all of his length in his mouth until there’s nothing more to give. His throat expands _too_ quickly and with noticeable consequence. The pain mixed with the lack of air makes Andor’s eyes redden and water. 

He’s kept in place by a rather impressed Boba, but for a few seconds too long. Cassian sputters and whimpers in a request for release as his lungs start to burn.

Boba reaches down and wipes a tear from the rebel’s eyes. His calloused pointer finger traces Cassian’s cheek tenderly in contrast to the rough oral fucking. 

“Don’t cry, princess. You’re doing so well.”

After a few more seconds of choking him between his legs, Boba unsheathes his cock from Cassian’s warm throat with a tug. The rebel coughs and hacks as he gasps for the much-needed air. 

“Fuck,” Andor spits, beginning to second guess everything, “You’re so…big.” 

The praise makes Boba grin with bolstered ego, “And yet, I fit so perfectly in that tight little throat of yours.” The rugged mercenary rests his thumb over Cassian’s bottom lip and rubs it a bit, “Do you want me anywhere else, rebel, or just that pretty mouth?”

Andor wraps his hand around Boba’s shaft and strokes it softly, his fingers getting wet with his own saliva, “I…I don’t know. You’re so—”

“Big. I know, baby, but we can take our time,” Boba promises with a charming grin. 

Cassian is slow to agree, but eventually nods, “Only if we go slow.”

Boba runs his fingers through Cassian’s fluffy head of brown hair, “We will. After all, I promised your droid you’d be returned in one piece.” 

An amused chuckle—not from Boba, but from Cassian this time. It was an unfamiliar sound to both of them. 

Ready for more, the bounty hunter and the rebel rise in tandem. The two stand motionless in the cold cell for a few moments. Tired eyes lock with each other in an instant that might be more than just mutual lust—perhaps a mutual understanding of how badly they needed each other to fulfill their desires. 

_One could never find a man strong enough, the other broke those who were too weak._

“Where do you want me?” Andor whispers meekly. 

Boba’s response comes in the form of his hands locking with Cassian’s. The mercenary pulls him in for a rough, messy kiss. Their tongues battle in the middle for dominance and Boba moans into the other man’s open mouth.

The two make out for a few blissful minutes before the mercenary’s hunger takes hold. The smaller inmate is led over to the wall and turned to face it. 

“Hands above you. Let me get a good feel for my new pet.”

Cassian obeys. Still in his unzipped jumper he presses his chest and palms flat against the cold cell. A sharp chill seizes through his bones. 

Boba wastes no time, exploring Andor’s body with his coarse hands. He cups the rebel’s shapely ass and gives it a good, firm squeeze—enough to draw a pleased murmur from them both. 

Even beneath the jumpsuit, the plumpness of Cassian’s cheeks makes Boba’s manhood throb even more. The tip of his cock prods into Andor’s leg, staining his jumper with a few drops of clear precum.

“Take your arms out of the sleeves,” Boba demands next. 

With two gentle tugs Cassian’s arms are freed and the jumper falls to reveal the whole of his wounded torso. The rebel’s back and shoulders are slender, but toned by years of fighting for the cause. Bruises color the canvas of his tanned skin with hues of purple, red, and yellow. 

An empathetic hum resonates from Boba.

“They hurt you so badly, darling,” he soothes, grazing his palms over the other inmate’s wounds, “But I’ll make you feel better. Don’t worry.” 

The mercenary wraps his fingers under the jumper’s waist-seam and gives it one good tug. The article falls past Cassian’s thighs and lands at his ankles. He stands exposed, legs and arms spread apart in a prone stance. 

Boba sticks the middle and pointer finger of his right hand into his mouth. With the rolling of his tongue he coats them with a thick layer of saliva. 

The inmate removes them and prods between Cassian’s asscheeks. When he finds the rebel’s puckered hole he presses the two digits against it; beginning to open him up.

Cassian whines, wriggling his body a bit in protest. Boba presses his bulging chest against the rebel’s back to pin him, continuing with his probing. 

“Easy there, princess. I have to warm you up first.”

Andor is forced to stand still as the pair of fingers dig their way into him. Boba’s hand covers Cassian’s mouth just as the rebel lets out a loud moan. The mercenary leans close and growls in his left ear. 

“Quiet. We don’t want to get caught, do we?” 

His fingers begin to scissor outward inside Cassian’s hole. The quivering rebel can’t help but release a high-pitched whimper. 

A sultry chuckle teases Andor from behind. 

“If you’re not quiet, who knows what they’ll do to you?” The base of his fingers surpass Cassian’s dilating rim until they can’t enter any further. 

_“Have you ever been raped by a squad of stormtroopers, little rebel?”_

He removes his hand from the rebel's mouth to deliver a crude slap to the posterior, leaving a red handprint on the pale cheek. The hand returns to muffle Cassian before Boba continues, “They’ll use you first—fill you with their loads—then blow a hole in the back of your head just for fun.”

Cassian’s eyes go wide as fear begins to grip him. He whimpers submissively, and Boba replies with a few calming shushes. 

“But if you make me happy, I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen to you.”

The threat is _very_ real, and both of them knew it would eventually come to pass if Boba’s escape plan failed...or if he simply abandoned him. Cassian is forced to double take. The prior comfort was slowly turning into manipulation; but perhaps it was all a part of the fantasy. Boba wouldn’t come all this way just to leave...would he?

The rebel reasons to adapt, to find it arousing. His life hinged on pleasuring this stranger, and disappointing him wasn’t an option. 

It’s at that moment when Boba’s digits find Cassian’s prostate. The larger inmate begins to poke and massage it with his fingertips, nibbling on Andor’s left ear from behind as he does so. 

The pleasure is intoxicating, taking over Andor’s entire lower half. Were it not for Boba pinning him against the wall he might have gone totally limp. 

A symphony of erotic lulls and noises resonate from Cassian’s throat. Boba’s hot breath grazes the side of Andor’s neck—causing the hairs to stand. 

“You’re being such a good little slut for me, princess. _So_ good.”

Without warning the mercenary spreads his fingers as far apart as they will go. The sting is immediate and severe, but Cassian’s pained yelps are muffled by the hand still covering his mouth.

“Shhh, it’s okay.” Boba reassures him with a peppering of kisses to his nape, “It will feel good soon.”

_And he was right—almost on cue._

As Cassian’s inner-walls expand to accommodate the stinging pain evolves into a dull pleasure. His cries repurpose themselves; once begging for release, now begging for more. 

With slow motions Boba enters and exits Cassian’s hole. The mercenary finds the rebel’s prostate _every time,_ rubbing it with careful precision—this shoots bolts of unimaginable pleasure up Andor’s spine and down his legs. 

Boba removes his hand from Cassian’s mouth and poses a simple question:

_“Do you like that, princess?”_

“Yes. _Fuck_ …yes,” Cassian replies—his words weak and breathy. 

_“Louder_.” 

To encourage him, Boba forces a third finger into his tight hole.

 _“Nghh…”_ the smaller inmate struggles to form coherent phrases as his world begins to spin. The mercenary plays Cassian like an instrument, his fingers grazing all of the right spots inside of him. A _loud, long_ moan leaps from Andor. 

Boba chuckles, covering the rebel’s mouth again and nibbling on Cassian’s neck. He keeps pace with his fingers, spreading them and thrusting them in a smooth, perfect rhythm.

“Now...do you want _this?”_ He rubs his still-slick cock against the rebel’s red asscheek, “Do you want daddy’s cock inside of you, rebel filth?”

Cassian lets out a muffled noise intended to be a _‘Yes.’_ He backs it up by rutting his ass into Boba’s hand.

 _“So eager_ …I like that,” the mercenary teases before hastily removing his fingers. The sudden emptiness makes Cassian immediately want him back. He whines pathetically into Boba’s palm and rubs himself against the larger inmate’s manhood. 

“Be still for me,” Boba orders, wrapping his free hand around Cassian’s hip to hold him in place, “Show me how bad you want it.” 

Andor obeys and tries to hold perfectly still in their current position. Boba nudges his cock in between Cassian’s cheeks until the tip presses against his hole. The rebel keeps himself from thrusting backwards— _as much as he wanted to._

With an arduous lean Boba slowly begins spreading the rebel’s hole with his member. The precum on his tip as well as Cassian’s own saliva makes entering him relatively smooth. 

_At least for the mercenary._

Boba’s fingers were large, but that scarcely compared to the fullness of his cock. Cassian had admired it, lusted for it, but nothing had prepared him for what it would actually feel like inside of him. 

It’s so painful at first that the rebel fears his hole might tear. The other men he had been with before were so comfortable compared to this... _beast._

There is, of course, a cacophony of whines and moans that get trapped by the mercenary’s hand. Boba manages a few shallow moans for himself, digging himself inward just as Cassian had requested; _slowly._

This eases the rebel’s mind about where Boba’s intentions resided. Maybe his sense of fantasy was perverse, oppressive to a degree, but he still maintained the boundaries set by his partner. He cared. 

That epiphany is interrupted by Boba’s grainy baritone.

“That’s it,” he lets out another guttural noise, “You’re so tight, baby. I almost…” he trails off, shoving himself further in with a gentle buck, “I almost don’t fit.” 

Cassian _moans_ like he never has _,_ finding himself trying to push back again—trying to invite Boba further in—but the larger man’s single-handed grip keeps him steady. 

_“Slowly._ I know you want it, princess… _so bad,”_ the bounty hunter plants a few well-placed kisses down the back of Andor’s bruised shoulders, “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

The rebel nods in understanding, staying still as Boba moves them along at a healthy pace. It’s grueling, but Cassian’s hole begins to stretch without fail. The sting is consistently present until Andor feels something else; Boba’s hips against his ass. 

_He was all the way in._

“You feel so …” Boba starts, letting himself out a few inches before shoving the whole of himself back in. His tip _slams_ against Cassian’s sensitive prostate and both of them release a euphoric sound. 

The rebel lowers his left hand from the wall to rest atop Boba’s; which is still gripped around Andor’s hips. 

Cassian experiences something unique then. For once, he felt one with his partner. Their bodies and their desires are interlocked like iron chain-links; inseparable and codependent. 

Perhaps, if they were both lucky, this wouldn’t be their last time together.

Once more the mercenary removes his hand from Cassian’s mouth. Still thrusting in slow, digging motions, he places his lips next to the rebel’s ear. 

_“Tell me how you want it,”_ Boba asks, using his now-free hand to reach in front and grab Andor’s cock, “We might not get to do this again.” 

Cassian tries his best to stifle his moans, to form coherent sentences.

“I want you... _fuck--”_ the rebel starts, feeling his prostate get rammed again, “I want you...to _use_ me, Boba.”

 _“Yea?”_ the bounty hunter chimes, speeding his thrusting motions until the cell is filled with the slapping of Cassian’s plump ass against the larger inmate’s thighs.

 _“Please,”_ Andor begs weakly. He hears himself, realizing how pathetic he sounds, but knows that with Boba his submission was welcomed; encouraged. 

“Are you going to let me use this tight hole, rebel slut?” 

_“Yes,”_ he spits out between full-body waves of pleasure. 

“That’s it, princess. Arch that back for me.” 

Boba plants another crude slap onto Cassian’s ass--then another, then another. The rebel covers his own mouth now, knowing that if he didn’t control himself the entire detention block would know what they were doing. 

Then, the unexpected. Boba grabs Cassian by both of his hips and yanks him across the cell; bending the rebel’s tiny body over the metal bed slab so they’re fucking doggy-style. 

This allows the mercenary to speed up--to go faster, deeper, _harder._

Andor feels drops of water fall over his cheeks and onto his hand.

Tears. 

The absolute bliss that Boba was putting him in was almost out-of-body in nature. The pain mixed with the pleasure of his massive cock pressing against his anal walls was everything he wanted.

No one else had ever fucked him like this.

No one else _could_ ever fuck him like this.

“I’m getting close, baby,” Boba says through shallow breaths, “Do you want this load inside of you?”

Words fail the submissive. He simply nods. 

Boba smirks at that, “You want to be filled up, don’t you, rebel slut?”

“Y--Yes, Boba. _Please,”_ Cassian spits out through endless high-pitched whimpers and whines.

Andor feels himself getting close, but before he can say it the load is already shooting from his cock and painting the metal bed. The sides of his vision blur with body-seizing pleasure. 

Boba’s thrusts begin to slow, and Cassian knows what he’s about to receive. 

_“I’m--gah…!”_ Boba sputters before being overtaken by a tidal wave of erotic satisfaction. His bulky frame practically trembles as he spends himself into Cassian’s hole; a wet warmth filling the rebel’s anal passage. Boba thrusts as deep as he can to plant his seed.

Andor swears for a moment that he felt it in his stomach. 

The passion slows as Boba’s sizable balls are drained fully--almost to a point of aching. The mercenary cleans himself off with the rim of Cassian’s hole and _finally_ exits him; drips of cum still oozing from his tip and onto the floor. 

Boba lets Cassian go and the rebel immediately collapses into his own pool of seed. He heaves and gasps as his body tries to rebalance itself, tears streaming from his eyes. 

Andor feels a hand cup his head, fingers running slowly through his brown hair in an attempt to soothe him

“You did... _so_ well, princess,” Boba coos reassuringly, watching as his white cum leaks from Cassian’s pulsing hole, _“...so well_ for your savior.” 

Boba pulls the rebel from their bed, turns him around, and embraces him firmly. His rugged hands massage over the tender parts of Cassian’s back. The mercenary whispers into his ear, _“I’m going to get you out of here.”_

That alone makes Cassian melt into his arms. Weeks of bottling his torment had led to this--it was inevitable. This was the sequel to Andor’s desires that he never realized was necessary. 

Yes, he wanted someone to break him into pieces, but he also wanted someone to put him back together again. 

The two stand interlocked at the cell’s center for minutes on end; Boba holding Cassian, and Cassian sobbing into the mercenary’s hair-laden chest. 

It’s a sweet moment, but one short-lived. Something interrupts them.

A noise they weren’t anticipating. 

_The hiss of their cell door opening._

The two spin around as a familiar pair of stormtroopers steps into the holding room. The pneumatic door is sealed and locked behind them. It doesn’t take the troopers long to realize what had occurred just moments prior, and the epiphany of it causes them both to chuckle.

_Not humor, but malice._

The larger of the two...the one that felt his way around Cassian’s manhood steps forward; his voice rendered grainy and distant by the helmet:

“Well, look what we have here…”

**Author's Note:**

> HEY! This fic was slightly less depraved than "Forbidden Instinct." I consider that  
> <3 progress <3 
> 
> I'm slowly but surely finding my NSFW writing voice, so if you think my last fic and this one have similar NSFW benchmarks and descriptives it's because you're 100% correct! Eventually I'll break the mold, but for now let's just alter it in different ways LMAO. 
> 
> If you enjoyed, leave a kudos and your thoughts! Nothing gives me more serotonin than seeing you guys comment on my work. 
> 
> Until next time,  
> ~ Soup


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